


Stars in Your Vicinity

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Series: Celluloid Hero [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Films, Golden Age Hollywood, M/M, Movie Stars, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 18:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: Bucky can kind of wrap his mind around Steve’s physical transformation when they’re reunited, but it’s a lot harder to believe the part where he’s an actual goddamn movie star.





	Stars in Your Vicinity

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of a series of follow-up stories for Celluloid Hero, where other characters get to react to those movies Steve made that we got a small glimpse of in Captain America: The First Avenger.
> 
> Happy 101st birthday, Bucky Barnes.

For about the thirtieth time that day, Bucky threw a sideways look at Steve, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You’re tellin’ me you actually kissed Barbara Stanwyck.”

“Well, to be accurate, she kissed me,” Steve began, which only earned him another sour glare, “she’s a very take-charge kinda gal.” There was dried blood on Bucky’s jaw that Steve kept fighting the impulse to reach over and wipe off with his handkerchief, but since they were sitting on a riverbank with about four hundred other guys around them, he couldn’t. Bucky could doubt his story all he wanted, Steve only cared about one thing: Bucky was safe, and alive, and they were almost at the encampment.

They finished what little they had to eat and Steve gave the order to move out. He’d be lying if he told anyone it didn’t give him a shiver of excitement to be able to give a real order and have real soldiers follow it; he wasn’t on a film set pretending to be in charge, and his right-hand man was no longer an actor but the person he loved most in this world. As inappropriate as it might have been in the circumstances, every time he looked at Bucky, happiness surged inside him.

They hadn’t resumed marching for long when Bucky side-eyed him again. “And you’re trying to claim you dated Hedy fuckin’ Lamarr.” Over the days they’d been on the move, Steve had been filling Bucky in on what he’d missed in the letters that had never arrived, and Bucky—well, not that he wasn’t having any of it, but he seemed convinced Steve was pulling his leg. Every part of the story made him shake his head like one of those bobble-headed nodder toys. “The girl from _Ecstasy_ ,” Bucky said in wonder, more to himself than to Steve.

“Well...ah...yes, it’s true we dated, but...” Steve pushed his helmet up and scratched the back of his head as Bucky scowled at him. “There was...a little, you know...more than just...dates?”

Bucky was silent for the longest damn time. Steve was sure he caught a bit of a tremor in the hand holding his rifle—they were in the mountains of Northern Italy, in November, and Steve really wanted to give Bucky his jacket, but he knew Bucky wouldn’t hear of it. It had always been Bucky’s role to fuss over Steve, and he wasn’t prepared yet for that to change, too, along with Steve’s appearance. Eventually he sighed and cleared his throat. “I leave you alone for five fucking minutes, you get signed up for this reborn thing—”

“Project Rebirth.”

“Rebirth, whatever, you volunteer for an experiment and you get turned into this”—he waved a hand in a circle in front of Steve’s chest—“and you’re dancing onstage with a bunch of cuties in short skirts and making movies and hobnobbing with movie stars. Not just hobnobbing—you’re having it off with a gorgeous dame and losing your—”

“Don’t be vulgar. We had a relationship. It wasn’t like I went to a house of ill—”

“I’m just sayin’. This is kinda hard to believe, pal. I mean, I got proof of the project here”—and he poked Steve’s chest this time—“but then unlikely story after unlikely story piles up and I ain’t so sure you’re not bullshitting me about the rest of it.”

Steve sighed, as dramatically as he could, which was pretty dramatic these days—he’d had lessons. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t get my letters. If you’d received them, you would have read all about this as it was happening.”

“You make it sound like it was my fault I didn’t,” Bucky muttered.

“No, geez, of course I don’t believe that. I’m just saying that it might seem less unbelievable if you’d read about it. Or seen the newsreels, or the comics, or...something.”

“Steve, while you were playing blanket polo with the most gorgeous woman in the world and making goo-goo eyes at lady agents, I was freezing in a foxhole or getting my ass shot off and—”

“Your ass looks intact to me,” Steve said, leaning back to admire it. Bucky’d put on so much muscle in the service, but the days he’d been on that awful table, being _experimented on_ like some kind of rat, had knocked down his fighting weight, and it cut into Steve’s heart like a hot knife. And yet Steve thought he was still the handsomest man he’d ever seen, even after Hollywood. “And it looks fine.” 

Bucky ignored his attempt to flirt. “Maybe the censors stopped your letters. I dunno. Maybe they didn’t want Captain America talking about that stuff to some lowly non-com out in the field. You ever write about the dirty details of the ladies you were playing hide the—”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Steve interjected. “And if—”

Bucky turned around and shouted back down the line, “Hey Dum Dum, you see any gentlemen around? I don’t think I seen any gentlemen around these parts.” 

Dugan shrugged, weary and subdued. “No gentlemen in the Army, you know that, Barnes.” If even someone as boisterous as Dugan was exhausted, they would need a morale boost soon, because they still had about fifteen miles to go. This was definitely the harder part of command.

“There, you see? An unimpeachable source.” Bucky smirked irritatingly, but Steve could tell he was beginning to come around.

“As I was saying. I think Calvin would have told me about my letters being censored or blocked, he knew how important that was to me. And you did get some of them, because you read about the train trip and stuff, right? Maybe when we get back I can dig around and see if someone was holding on to them while you were fighting. I’m sure it will seem less outrageous in context. Not everything I told you was about the show or about Hollywood.” He wished Bucky could have enjoyed hearing about the architecture he’d seen in the different cities, his stories about learning to drive, all the mundane things that reminded a soldier in the field of what he was fighting for.

“Who’s Calvin?” For the first time since they’d begun the march back to camp, Steve saw a flicker of the old Bucky—a hint of jealousy, maybe?

“The senator’s aide. Traveled with us for the show, was kind of the liaison, I guess. But I’ll ask at the Special Services Company when we get back. Maybe, I don’t know, someone somewhere might know someone.” Steve fiercely wanted to see the ones Bucky’d been sending to Steve all those months, too, to know what was in the heart of his dearest friend. Bucky wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve; it was so cold and damp out here that Steve was afraid he might be getting pneumonia or something. Steve had repeatedly tried to get Bucky to ride in the truck with the wounded—because he fucking _was_ wounded—but Bucky had insisted that even though they weren’t all his men in the beginning, they were his men now.

“If I promise to spill all the salacious details, would you ride on that half-track for a little while at least, and get some rest? Humor me?”

Bucky threw him a disdainful glance, but he was beginning to see the toll his stubbornness was taking and that Steve’s concern wasn’t simply mother-henning, and he nodded. “I want all the juicy stuff, though, none of this gentleman’s bullshit. I gotta get my jollies through you now, apparently.”

“Well, I’m sure it doesn’t compare to your own experiences, so—” He motioned toward the half-track and Steve gave him a boost up, jumping up beside him. 

“What experiences?” Bucky shook his head. “I didn’t even go to the red-light districts in Tunisia. Too much effort, not enough reward.”

Steve frowned. “But—all those gals you dated. All those nights you didn’t come home till the wee hours.”

With a shrug, Bucky responded, “Drinking and dancing, dancing and drinking.”

“But I—I mean, I just assumed—” He thought of the remark Fred had made once about always being someone else when others were looking, what Cary had said about all the ways there were for people like him to hide.

Bucky looked at Steve with the same face he’d last seen at the Expo, when they were saying goodbye: exasperation, impatience, and so much affection it made Steve’s strong new heart falter. All the differences in his physical appearance melted away and it was the old familiar Bucky once again. “Only had eyes for you, pal,” he said so quietly, so tenderly Steve almost missed it entirely.

~~~

Time didn’t make Bucky any more accepting of Steve’s recent history. Every day Steve would catch Bucky watching him out of the corner of his eye, as though if he took his attention away Steve might transform back and he’d find out all this had been a lie, or maybe a fantasy he’d dreamt up in Zola’s lab. Once in a while he’d blurt out something like, “You kissed Ida Lupino on screen?” or “Cary Grant gave you the lowdown on how to kiss?” like he hadn’t quite heard right. Usually it was followed up by him poking Steve, as though he were testing for doneness.

The SSR had been quartered at a little hotel near the Victoria Embankment, where Steve pulled rank and got Bucky assigned to bunk with him even though it wasn’t really regulation. One night Bucky sat bolt upright in bed and Steve thought for a terrible minute that he was having some kind of attack—he’d seen the troubled sleep Bucky tried to downplay, watched him blank out in briefings, and noticed how shaky he’d been when the doctors examined him after Kreischberg—but then Bucky shook his head, laughed bitterly, and said, “All those times I tried to get you to dance and you blew me off, but it’s Bette Davis who finally gets you to cut a rug? You’re shittin’ me, right?”

“Well, and I sort of danced with Patsy Costello, too. And Barbara. But you couldn’t really call it dancing.”

That didn’t mollify him in the least and Bucky’d glared at him in the darkness, grumbling under his breath, then flopped back down on the bed. “‘I am a great fan of your films,’ he says,” Bucky said, mimicking the Red Skull’s accent. He’d always been an amazing mimic. “Christ, even the bad guys watched those things.” It went unsaid that he was annoyed that somehow he was the only person who’d missed his best friend’s claim to fame.

Steve was pretty sure Bucky expected the serum to reverse itself just like Steve often had, that his small, sickly version would abruptly manifest and Bucky’d be stuck having to figure out what to do with him in the middle of war-torn Europe. It didn’t matter that he’d single-handedly rescued men from a Hydra prison factory, his role as a real Captain America, not a figurehead, wasn’t worth much if he didn’t look the part, movie-star heroic. And sometimes Steve wondered if Bucky wasn’t a little envious.

How could he blame Bucky if he was? While he’d been suffering through horrific fighting and deprivation, Steve had been living it up on the road and in Hollywood. But if there were any benefits to Steve’s fame here in the campaign, he was going to lavish them all on Bucky, and while they were in London, Steve thought he might have some ways to do that—with the side effect of convincing Bucky his stories weren’t tall tales.

One afternoon he corralled Bucky outside the enlisted men’s mess. “Come on. I’ve cleared your slate for the rest of the day.”

Though Bucky looked at him suspiciously, he acquiesced, the way he always did when he knew Steve had something up his sleeve, because he’d learned it was just too much trouble to fight Steve, large or small. They took the Tube to Piccadilly Circus and the Ritz Hotel, and the two of them gaped their way through the lobby to the front desk. “You stay in fancy places like this?” Bucky asked, turning in circles as he stared at the opulent furnishings. 

“On the tour it was trains all the way, and in California I was only in the hotel for a little while. It was nice, but...nothing like this.”

“Right, you got to go live with fuckin’ John Garfield.”

Steve grinned. “He’d actually like that you called him that. He’s planning to come over again, you know, maybe you’ll meet him. I bet you guys’d get on like a house afire.” Bucky gave him a scathing glare. 

“Can you tell me which is Miss Dietrich’s room, please?” Steve asked the desk man. 

He looked Steve over, clearly in disbelief that some American soldier had any right to be visiting someone like her. “I’m afraid I can only ring. Who shall I say is calling on her?” Disdain dripped from his words. Beside Steve, Bucky was giving off that twitchy edginess he got when he thought someone was being unkind to Steve. 

Before Bucky could wind up and sock the guy for being disrespectful, Steve said cheerfully, “Captain Steve Rogers,” adding with a smile, “she might remember me as Captain America, but I’m pretty sure she’ll know my name.”

The desk man’s head snapped back and his eyes widened. Steve’s face and name had been plastered all over the English papers since the first correspondent had written up the report about Kreischberg. “Oh, yes, my pleasure, Captain.” He rang her room, listened for a moment, and said, “Miss Dietrich will meet you in the Palm Court—the tea room.” 

Now it clicked in Bucky’s head: maybe Steve’s short career in films wasn’t a complete fabrication. But he said nothing as they went to sit down at one of the empty tables, gawking at the guests, until Miss Dietrich swept in in a cloud of smoke and Indiscret, a fur coat thrown over her short Army jacket, her olive drab trousers bloused into her boots. All eyes turned toward her, and not simply because of her famous face. “That’s quite the ensemble,” Bucky muttered.

“Dearest Steve!” she said, handing her cigarette holder to the woman beside her and embracing him. “Oh, how we’ve all missed you. I heard the news—my god, such a hero. We always knew, didn’t we?” she said to the young woman, probably some sort of assistant. She probably wouldn’t last long—no one could keep up with Marlene, even someone twenty years younger. “I can’t stay, you caught me on the way to interview, but I had to see you. You will come to the show, yes, and bring your friends? We’ll have a party after, I want you to bring everyone.” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead turned to look Bucky up and down, and Steve could tell she liked what she saw. He couldn’t blame her.

“Miss—Marlene, sorry.” In the time he’d been away he’d got out of the habit of being so familiar with stars. “This is my friend—”

Without waiting for him to finish, she said, “Bucky. Your lovely friend we heard so much about.” Bucky’s brows shot up and he glanced from her to Steve and back again. “Oh, I am so happy you have been reunited.” She kissed Bucky on both cheeks and took his hands, and Steve thought Bucky was gonna faint right there in the Ritz. “I want so much to catch up with you, my dear. Say you’ll come to the party? Can I take pictures with your men, too?”

“When are you heading back to the Continent?” It didn’t surprise him to see her wearing Army clothes, since she had been closer to the front than he was before...everything had happened.

“Soon. I have shows here, hospital visits—if you can, you must come with me.”

“I’m not sure they’ll let me now, but if I can get away again, I will. I’m official these days,” he added, and she clapped her hands together.

They made plans for her party and the USO show that night. Marlene kissed Steve on both cheeks, and hugged him once more. “I must get to know you, Bucky!” she called, marching back out the door, the scent of her perfume lingering on his uniform. 

“Still think I’m making it all up?” Steve asked, as they were leaving the hotel and putting their hats back on, both a little dazed in the wake of Hurricane Marlene. 

“I don’t think I know what to believe anymore,” Bucky said, thunderstruck, lighting a cigarette and glancing back inside the hotel. 

“Don’t worry,” Steve said with a small laugh, patting him on the shoulder, “you kinda get used to it.” He wasn’t sure why, maybe he was just testing things out, but he said quietly, “I think there are a lot of lovely ladies in this arm of the USO tour. A party with Miss Dietrich could be...” He held his hands out.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I ain’t looking for loose women. Just point me to the dancing,” he said. 

“Well, the nightlife comes later. Right now, I got something else on the ticket.” There’d been paperwork to take care of when they’d come to London—moving his assignment officially from the Personnel Battalion and Special Services Company back to the SSR, giving him his official commission and railroad tracks, outfitting him in his new service uniform, and filing his field reports about the rescue effort. While he’d been at Special Services, he’d dug around till he found the lieutenant in charge of screening films in and around London.

He’d asked Lieutenant Myers if he still had any of the newsreels or the bonds movie from the FMPU, or even _Captain America: Call to Arms_. “It was supposed to have screened for the servicemen here first, I’d heard, but things kind of got away from me for a while there.” At first Myers didn’t understand what Steve was saying or why he was asking for those specific films, but then the penny seemed to drop and his face had lit up.

“Say, you’re the fella from the movies, Captain America! You’re really real!” At Steve’s laugh, his face had colored. “Of course you’re real, what a dumb thing to say. I just meant I didn’t think you’d be, you know, over here and really serving. I thought it was a stunt.” At least he looked apologetic when he said it. “I did read the comics, though!”

“Glad to hear it,” Steve had remarked, amused. He’d have to get used to this sort of thing, he supposed. If he’d learned anything from his time in Hollywood it was how precious your privacy was once everyone knew your face, and how much everyone thought your life belonged to them simply because you were famous. “So...I had a little idea I cooked up, but I sort of need your help to carry it off, if you’re willing.”

Steve had given him the list of which films he was looking for, and the lieutenant had gone off and excitedly dug around in the canisters piled on tables and chairs till he’d found a few, though Steve wasn’t sure which ones he had. “You want to watch here, sir?” Myers had asked, when Steve wondered where he could view them. “How many people you inviting?”

“It’s...it’s a very small audience,” Steve had said. Myers had probably been thinking he was inviting some brass along. They set a time.

Steve and Bucky had a little time to kill before Lieutenant Myers would be ready for them, so they stopped in at a pub for a quick meal—Steve was determined to get some of the weight he'd lost back on Bucky’s frame. At first Bucky didn’t seem aware of all the polite but curious stares, but gradually he noticed the way people would glance in their direction and quickly look away. He’d been kind of a mess since the factory, seemed to get lost inside his own head some of the time, where before he’d always been the keenest observer of others. “Are they lookin’ at us strange because we’re Yanks, or because they recognize your ugly mug?”

Steve smirked. “Better get used to it, because you’re about to be famous, too. You’re in every frame of those pictures from when we returned to camp.”

Bucky hmpfed. As charming and outgoing as Bucky was, he guarded his privacy and inner life fiercely. Which made sense when Steve had found out he liked fellas. They were alike in that way, outside of the surface charm and friendliness which Steve had never possessed, and it was probably going to be as tough for Bucky as it had been for Steve once he’d become Captain America. 

While they ate, Steve told Bucky more about Project Rebirth and the things he’d written in all those letters Bucky’d never received—Steve had someone else at the offices searching for his and Bucky’s letters—and then they headed to the Special Services office. 

Lieutenant Myers was even more excited to see him this time—someone else in the office had just finished scheduling some cameramen for Pathé news to interview Captain America. Steve tried not to groan; he was already tired of ditching news people and his service had barely begun. 

“Where’s the rest of your audience?” Myers asked, looking around as though somehow they’d all managed to escape his detection.

“You’re looking at it.” Steve smiled apologetically and Myers’s mouth drew into a tight line. “Sorry. I meant it when I said small audience.” He motioned toward Bucky. “My friend was one of those prisoners in Austria. He’s never had a chance to see any of the films—”

“Yeah, okay, sir, I see,” a placated Myers said. He’d probably hoped he’d get to hobnob with film stars or something. “What outfit you with?” he asked Bucky.

“The one-oh-seventh,” Bucky answered, and then turned his gaze on Steve. “Okay, I get it. This is the VIP special screening of the Hollywood hero’s oeuvre here,” and he jerked a thumb at Steve. 

Myers seemed a little surprised that a sergeant was talking that way to a captain, but he kept it to himself and steered them down a hall to a small screening room, with a couple dozen camp chairs, a screen, and a projector. Bucky was watching him out of the sides of his eyes as they sat down and Myers started up the projector.

Steve hadn’t asked which pictures the lieutenant found, and his stomach did a little flip not unlike when he’d gone to his first premiere as the countdown started. Not that he was nervous enough to vomit, but there was something about watching these with Bucky that was, possibly, even worse than watching himself with a bunch of strangers. How he wished Thelma or Bette or Julie could be here to pat him on the back and reassure him that Bucky wouldn’t laugh. Or maybe he feared a worse reaction from Bucky: the kind of scorn that Ward Bond had mentioned entertainers getting from combat veterans, reminding them that soldiers were giving their lives to defend their privileges. 

The newsreel Myers had dug up was from August, when Steve had made his first appearance at the Hollywood Canteen. Thank god there was no sound, just the narrator intoning about how much had been raised in bond sales on the tour, and that Steve would be meeting with studio heads. The short he’d made at the FMPU was next, and Steve could feel his neck and face heat with embarrassment—he remembered the jeering audience of soldiers back in Italy, the one fella mooning him, and Steve waited for Bucky to turn to him and sneer.

Instead Bucky seemed transfixed by the picture, his eyes constantly moving and tracking Steve in the frame, and his hands nervously twisted the end of his tie or he’d rub them up and down his thighs. At the end, after the gals had finished the dance and Steve made his speech about how bonds would help Uncle Sam create more heroes like himself, Steve reached over and put his hand on Bucky’s forearm while the lieutenant changed the reels. Bucky finally turned to him with a fond smile. “Holy cow, Steve,” was all he said, and then the next film sputtered to life on the screen.

He’d thought maybe it would be just another newsreel of a more recent vintage, but it was _Call to Arms_ , and Steve thought, “I need to find a really nice thank-you gift for Lieutenant Myers for this.”

He hadn’t seen the final edit: they’d trimmed a few of the fight scenes down, which he thought was wise, since the fellas over here wouldn’t likely be impressed by their playacting and how much they probably got wrong—not to mention they’d lived it and didn’t need see it again. It looked as though Howard Da Silva, who played Cap’s enemy Dr. Kruger, had shot a few more pick-ups after Steve had left, giving his character extra screen time for evil plotting in his evil lair. 

A part of Steve wanted to laugh about it all, now that he had actual experience under his belt, and it battled with the part of him that was absorbed in watching Bucky’s reactions. He wasn’t sure if Bucky was aware of how intently Steve was watching him, or if he was trying to avoid any kind of a scene for the benefit of their projectionist—but it was clear to Steve that the film stirred up some deep emotions for Bucky. The kiss with Ida Lupino made Bucky blink; the fighting sequences made him wince or recoil at their loudest segments; the worst part, though, was the shudder and flinch when Dr. Kruger moved toward the tied-up Betty Carver with a syringe in his hand with an evil laugh. Steve’s chest grew constricted, his hands balled into fists; he fought back the sharp prick of tears. 

The picture ended with a card that read **Coming Soon Captain America: Call to Victory**. Lieutenant Myers turned the lights back on, and Steve went over to him, shook his hand, and said, “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it, more than I can say. Would it be okay if we stayed here for a few minutes?” 

Myers glanced at Bucky, who was trying to pull himself together, then at Steve. “I think so. Sir. Just let me know when you’re leaving, though. I gotta put everything back before we head off for another screening.” Steve waited till the door shut before pulling a chair opposite Bucky, pressing his knees against his. 

“So...what’d you think?” 

“They were swell.” That wasn’t what Steve was asking, but Bucky knew that. “I didn’t _not_ believe you, you know.” His brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down.

“I know. It’s just hard to accept.” Steve sighed. “Even I can’t believe this whole thing sometimes. It feels so damn strange to see pictures of myself, to watch myself on a movie screen. To think people care what I say or do now.”

Bucky eventually turned his gaze up to Steve’s, and he suddenly looked so tired, so fragile, and Steve wanted to sweep him into his arms and never let go. “You were really good up there, Steve. Really good. You shouldn’t have given all that up for the privilege of getting shot at and living in cold stinking foxholes or eaten alive by mosquitoes. You could be swannin’ around with Marlene Dietrich instead of eating K-rations with us grunts.”

“Well, the grunts includes you, so there’s no place I’d rather be.” He twined his fingers with Bucky’s. “When I didn’t hear from you for so long, I thought all the worst things in my head. And then the worst things turned out to be true—Phillips said you were dead, and I wasn’t sure he wasn’t right, but I had to try. God, I was so scared. And I know things are bad for you”—Bucky shook his head—“no, listen, I know things are bad and I know you’re hurt, but I’m here and I’m not going anywhere and I want to help you. I don’t want to be anywhere else than by your side. Every day while I was in that life, I just wanted to be in this one with you.”

Bucky looked at the blank screen. “I guess I gotta share you with the rest of the world now. You ain’t just a famous movie star, you’re a war hero now. You’re Captain America. What would you want with me when you could have all that?”

Steve tugged Bucky up to stand, pulling him close. “I’m still the same old Steve. I have it on good authority that that’s true—Patsy told me so.” Bucky smiled and shook his head; it was the first genuine smile he’d seen from Bucky since they’d reunited. “If you’re of the mind that just because I did those movies and dated some actresses I have changed that much, you’re very, very mistaken. Because those kisses you gave me before you shipped out are still the biggest thrill I’ve ever had in my life.”

Bucky blinked. His mouth opened, but before he could say something—probably to argue that Steve shouldn’t talk like that now that he was an officer and a movie star—Steve kissed him. At first Bucky didn’t move, rigid and stunned, but then he relaxed, kissing Steve back with intensity, putting his hand to Steve’s cheek.

He pulled away, flushed and awkward and shy all of a sudden—he’d always felt that way around Bucky, always been this way about him. They pressed their foreheads together, holding on to each other, breathing in and out. He’d spent hundreds of hours in front of audiences and cameras reminding people what they were fighting for. Now, in this room with Bucky, he knew what his own fight had been for all along: it was right here in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> On [tumblr](http://teatotally.tumblr.com/post/171747510695/fic-stars-in-your-vicinity).
> 
> The title is taken from a line in a Rilke poem: "Are not stars also in your vicinity?"


End file.
